


I'll use you as a makeshift gauge, of how much to give and how much to take.

by oathkeptroxas



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover Pairings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Kindred Spirits, Non-Explicit Sex, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 04:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10072889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oathkeptroxas/pseuds/oathkeptroxas
Summary: Dean Winchester was like a breath of fresh air. Laurel knew he was temporary, that he was a drifter that would go wherever the job took him, that the likelihood of ever seeing him beyond this night was almost impossible. Maybe that was just another thing that made him so appealing. If she knew from the jump not to expect anything, then he couldn’t let her down.Laurel and Dean hunt a vampire together. Things happen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to Becky (Tumblr user laurelwinchester, AO3 user Becks_Rylynn) because following her on Tumblr is what even brought this ship to my attention, and her Dean/Laurel fic gives me all the emotions. 
> 
> I've been chipping away at this for quite a few weeks now, and it's the longest oneshot I've ever written. The end seems a little rushed to me but I wanted to get it finished and it's like 3am so meh.
> 
> I love Dean and Laurel so much and the angsty parallels are so good and they both deserve so much!!

 

_"Oh I'll use you as a warning sign_   
_That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind_

_Oh and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be_   
_Right in front of me_   
_Talk some sense to me"_

**I Found | Amber Run**

* * *

 

 

Dean watched, transfixed as the early morning sun settled upon the soft skin of her bare shoulder. A warm, golden glow peered from between grubby motel blinds and cast stark shadows and streams of light against the contours of her. He’d met many angels in his time, barely found one who he could stomach, and so he knew that she was something more. She was ethereal, bathed in buttery light, thick lashes framing eyes he knew better than his own.

Not for the first time he marveled at the sheer amount of dumb luck he’d acquired to have her beside him. He knew he’d done nothing to deserve it. Their meeting had been pure chance, a happenstance that had left him reeling, uncomprehending of what he’d unknowingly uncovered. It had started the same as any other hunt.

He’d followed a small nest of vampires to Star City. Having never been there before, he did some scouting ahead, and was well aware of their vigilante problem. Dean rolled his eyes at that, just some other over confident do-gooders who had no idea what they were getting themselves into, just some more wannabes that would only end up getting in his way. This was his fucking job, not theirs. They weren’t built for this. He wasn’t naive enough to believe he’d be in and out before one of them made their presence known.

With he and Sam on less than good terms - it seemed like the times they _were_ speaking were coming few and far between these days - he perhaps was a little in over his head, not that he’d ever let that stop him. It was just life kicking him when he was down, should've seen it coming when the last remaining vamp had him pinned. With fangs elongated and jaw gnashing towards his jugular, he couldn’t help but think that this would perhaps be his least remarkable death. He struggled against the fiend, reaching in vain for his blade, soaked in dead man’s blood, left to dry and crust, it would still do its job. He gripped it from his belt, pushing against the thing’s chest as he brought it up, but the monster was faster. The knife clattered against the gravel and the vamp kicked it away, still snarling.

 _Fuck._ His booted feet slipped against the ground as he tried to push himself up the wall, to gain leverage as the creature got dangerously close to its intended target. Suddenly, it reared back, whirling around to showcase the knife now embedded between its shoulder blades. Dean staggered, taking in deep lungfuls of air. Before them stood a woman, dressed all in leather with such a self-assured smirk that Dean briefly pondered if he’d actually died, and she was some hallucination he’d conjured to make it all a little easier.

The thing grasped the handle of the blade, and with a yowl yanked it free from its body. Dean could see from its shivers and haggard movements that the poison was doing its job. The fiend pounced, slicing the air with the weapon, but the masked woman weaved easily around the attack. They danced a little, intricate ducks and dodges that left her stood, almost protectively, in front of Dean. Before the hunter could think to protest, she parted her lips around a deafening scream. The screech had him grabbing at his head in a desperate attempt to cover his ears, but it did nothing to block out the sound. The monster did the same, dropping Dean’s knife to the ground in the process. The woman continued her scream just long enough to retrieve the weapon.

Dean heaved deep breaths, his ears ringing with the echo of the sound. The vampire seemed so disoriented, the sonic projection and the dead man’s blood too much for it to fight through. Dean glanced at the vigilante, her head slightly turned to meet his gaze over her shoulder. “Coulda warned a guy,” Dean panted, a little pissed she’d essentially assaulted his ear drums.

“What, and warn that guy, too?” She snarked, inclined her head to the vamp that was slowly regaining its composure.

Dean huffed, unable to think up a retort but not about to let go of his irritation. Suddenly she was in front of him, facing him head on. Her fingers wrapped delicately around his biceps as she helped steady him as he finally pushed away from the wall. “Don’t move too fast, okay? Are you injured?”

So caught up was he in her earnest expression and oceanic eyes that he couldn’t even voice his disdain. He was _fine_. He certainly didn’t need babysitting. After a prolonged moment of eye contact and no words spoken, Dean noticed movement in his peripheral. “ _Fuck!_ ” He sneered. He shoved away from her and took off like a shot, barely spying the silhouette of the vamp before it disappeared through the mouth of the alley and around the corner. He hated having to chase them.

He followed it for another street or two. It was faster than he was, vampire senses making it more agile despite its weakened state. Its fight or flight response had clearly kicked in and it was definitely fleeing. Dean didn’t know this city, was sure he’d been tracing circles through the labyrinth of streets and alleys. Begrudgingly, he had to relent. He’d lost it. As he came to a halt he became aware of the footsteps echoing behind him. She stopped a few feet away, her expression unreadable. A part of him was surprised and impressed that she’d followed and kept up, but he regarded her with a scathing look before he slammed his fist atop a nearby dumpster. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, you said that already.” The vigilante breathed, annoyance clear in her tone.

“I don’t need the attitude, sweetheart. Who do you think you are, anyway?” He spat.

She bristled at the endearment. “I’m the one who just saved your life.” She took a steadying breath to compose herself before continuing. “I’m not the only one at fault here, so I don’t need your attitude either. We need to work out what we’re gonna do next.”

Dean froze, his gaze snapped up to meet hers. “ _We?_ ” He began scathingly. “No. There is no _we_. This is _my_ job.”

“Hey!” She snapped as he turned his back on her. “You’re not the only one who dropped the ball back there. And if you think I’m gonna just walk away and trust some stranger to clean up my mess then you're about as dimwitted as you are pretty.”

If this guy wanted to spout sarcasm and scathing flirtations, two could play at that game. If he dared to call her _sweetheart_ like she was some delicate schoolgirl, then she would show him the wrath of a woman. If there was one thing that Laurel detested it was hypocrisy. She’d had to deal with enough of that over the last few years.

She was fed up of being put down by men who did nothing but underestimate her. On some level she knew she was taking this personally when it was anything but, this guy didn’t even _know her_ in any way that could’ve made it personal. But it would be a lie to say she hadn’t developed a complex, she instantly got defensive when her competence was called into question now. It was just another way that Oliver Queen had tainted her with something ugly, another way in which she struggled to prove herself. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. She was done being walked over.

Dean’s fists clenched, his tongue dancing around a retort. But ultimately, he sighed. They didn’t have time for this. He could see from the glint in her eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw that he wasn't going to win. “Alright, fine. But stay close and follow my lead, these aren’t criminals we’re dealing with here. They’re monsters.”

“I figured as much.” She murmured as she came to step up beside him.

“I’m Dean, by the way.” He said as an afterthought.

“Black Canary,” she stated.

Dean pursed his lips, his brow furrowed as he shrugged, giving her an appreciative once over. “That’d make a cool band name.”

She rolled her eyes a little, but her expression turned soft, amused. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” She headed towards the corner of the alley.

Dean followed without hesitance, they’d made it a couple of yards before he spoke up again. “Oh, and Birdie, just so you know, I think you’re pretty _pretty_ , yourself.” He winked and she scoffed.

“We’re not likely to track that thing now. We got it pretty good and it’ll probably hole-up and lay low for a while. We need to re-group.” She proposed logically, refusing to address the light flirt. She wasn’t here to pick up guys, or make friends.

“I got a room at a motel not far from here. We're gonna need supplies.” Dean simply nodded in the direction they needed to go, before searching her expression for a silent moment. “You don't seem too surprised by the whole _vampire_ thing.” He finally said.

“So, _that’s_ what that was,” she murmured almost to herself. “To be honest with you, Dean, I’m not sure anything would shock me these days.” She offered him half of a smile.

“Amen.” He conceded a little grimly. When they got to the motel he shrugged out of his leather jacket and slung it atop the bed. Without a word he retrieved a beer from the mini bar, he popped the top off and took a deep pull before turning to her. “You want?” He offered.

“I’m good,” she dismissed cooly.

He simply shrugged, before he took another swallow and sat down. “Suit yourself.”

The vigilante sighed a little impatiently before she somewhat reluctantly took a seat beside him. “So, how do we stop a vampire?”

“ _Kill._ ” He corrected.

Her knee-jerk reaction was to refute the idea. She was a hero, not a killer. You couldn’t be both at once. But, this was his world, not hers. If what she knew of vampires was true - all trashy teen romance aside - then they were _already dead_ , not among the living. With a scoff, she flicked her eyes up to the cracked ceiling and twined her fingers together in her lap. She met his eyes once more, “Fine,” she sighed. “How do we _kill_ a vampire?”

Dean raised the bottle to his lips again, but it didn’t make contact. He held it a hair's breadth away from his mouth, frozen as if he’d gotten distracted from completing the motion. His gaze swept over her appraisingly for a moment before he inclined his head ever so slightly and took a swig. He brought the bottle back down, held it between his thighs, the condensation on the glass dampened the denim of his jeans, a chill ran through him. He assessed her, the golden tresses of her hair, the sharp, pale teal of her eyes. His gaze lingered on the soft curve of her lips, the angle of her jaw and cheekbones, the slight redness he could see peeking around the edges of her mask where the leather was pressing into the skin. She was beautiful. The thought struck him as odd, for some reason. It was unexpected and unbidden. But, Dean had never been one to deny himself simple pleasures in life, they came so few and far between. Admiring a beautiful woman in the most innocuous of ways was a small reprieve from the horror that followed him relentlessly.

She quirked a brow in incredulity, meeting his gaze full on. Her lips were downturned a little as she scrunched up her nose in irritation, he continued to do nothing but stare. “Well? Don’t leave me in suspense.” She pressed, exasperated.

Dean smirked in that tell-tale, cock-sure way. But there was a softness around his eyes that looked almost _fond_. “What’s your deal, anyway?” He asked, his voice almost gentle, curious.

“I stop the bad guys. Same as you, from what I can tell.” She returned evenly. “Are you gonna answer my question or not?”

He huffed a little, amused but not mocking. She had a sharp tongue on her, he’d give her that. He certainly wasn’t complaining. “We don’t have to worry for now. The sun’s gonna be up in a coupla hours, and it’ll be too weak to be making any moves just yet. We can catch it off guard in daylight, so we’ve got a pretty decent window to try and work out where it’s hiding.” He began, glancing briefly at the clock on the bedside, it was nearing 5am. “Vamps need to be beheaded and burned. Dead man’s blood slows them down, which is what that knife was coated with. It acts as a poison. Usually, you’d inject a dose straight to the blood stream, but I used up what I had on the last few, the knife was a last resort.”

“There are more of them?” She asked, worried that if they didn’t act fast someone could get killed.

“ _Were_ ,” He corrected lightly, “They travel in packs. But don’t worry, we’re down to the last of ‘em.”

A shudder passed through her before she could stop it. Despite the horrific things she’d been witness to, this was worlds away from anything she’d come to expect. For a second, she pondered the kind of life you’d have if you were to do this the way that he did. It seemed lonely. If she hadn’t seen the creature with her own two eyes, and if she hadn’t been exposed to the supernatural herself previously, there’s no way she would’ve believed him if he’d told her. There was so much out there she’d never seen, and a part of her was grateful for that. It was difficult enough to live with a secret identity, she couldn’t imagine the strain it would put on her life and her relationships if she had to hide an entire other world from the ones she loved, a world that wanted nothing more than to devour them whole.

Dean got up suddenly, picked his jacket back up off of the end of the bed and dug through the pockets. “Ah-ha!” He announced in triumph, presumably finding what he’d been searching for. He returned to his place beside her and unfolded the piece of paper. It was crumpled and the creases had started to wear away some of the imagery, but it was a leaflet, the kind that they gave to tourists. He’d most likely picked it up from the motel desk. The inside folded out into a map of the surrounding area. He laid it out on the coffee table before them.

She raised an eyebrow at that. It wasn’t the high-tech reconnaissance that she had grown used to with Team Arrow, but it would get the job done. Dean struck her as a simple guy, old fashioned, practical, hands-on. It was refreshing, comforting. There was something very genuine about a man like that. She glanced over his shoulder, leaning in close to peer at the map. She pressed a fingertip to a point just left of the red marker that declared ‘YOU ARE HERE’. “That’s the alley where I found you,” She murmured.

“Okay. We know it couldn’t have gone too far. It’s injured and alone.” Dean looked at her, was a little surprised by just how close their faces had gotten during their huddling over the table. He didn’t let it phase him. “It’s gonna need somewhere empty, where it can be unseen and safe from daylight. It will most likely be hiding in plain sight, somewhere nearby but not an obvious choice, something we might overlook.”

She nodded, absorbing the information easily and committing it to memory, not that she would be facing off any vampires again if she could help it. “What kind of places do they normally go for? Where have you found them before?” She asked, wanted as much detail as possible before she hazarded a guess. Empty and dark were vague descriptors.

Dean paused, considering. “All kinds of places. Can’t really narrow it down. Old warehouses, barns, easy to access sewer systems.” He shrugged. “Anything in this area,” he ran a fingertip in a circle around the few blocks surrounding the motel on the map, “That may be a good place to lay low?”

Black Canary tilted her head in contemplation. Her brow furrowed as she stared down at the map, considering different possibilities. Suddenly, her face brightened. Dean could almost see the light bulb above her head. The imagery made him smile, just the faintest upturning of his lips. “Here.” She jabbed at a small building less than two blocks away. “It’s an old florist. Been out of business the last few years, all boarded up. Police caught a couple of kids breaking in through the back to smoke just last week, they don’t think it’s worth the time and money it would take to shutter it all up properly.”

Laurel knew the business well. It had belonged to an elderly couple, the Johnsons, they’d run it together for decades. Oliver used to buy her arrangements from them all the time, Mrs Johnson had known all her favourites. Devastatingly, the Johnsons had been a fatality, a tragedy of the Undertaking. No one had bought the place, and it had fallen into disrepair. Sometimes, Laurel missed those flowers. But, she learnt as time went on that Oliver usually bought a bouquet whenever he had something to apologize for. The orchids stopped being a gift, had become an omen. She couldn’t stand to receive flowers now.

“Where’d you go?” Dean spoke up, his eyebrow quirked incredulously. She’d completely missed whatever it was he’d been saying.

“Nowhere good,” she grimaced.

Dean let out a little self-deprecating huff and smirked. He drained the remainder of his beer. “Yeah, I’ve been there.”

She sighed as he placed the now empty bottle onto the table beside the map. “Sorry, what were you saying?” She prompted when it became obvious he wasn’t going to pick up their previous conversation.

“Just that it was a good place to start. It’s as good a guess as any, and I don’t know my way around here enough to make another suggestion.” Dean shrugged, wiped the palms of his hands off on his jeans, and stood.

“Alright, so if that’s _where_ we start, we need to decide on the _when_.” Laurel glanced up at him expectantly.

The side of his mouth raised in a lopsided smirk, his eyes glittered with approval. He really loved a woman who got shit done. Of all the do-gooders he’d encountered who’d wanted nothing more than to get in his way, she seemed to be the exception to the rule. She was determined, capable, level-headed, willing to jump right into the fray in order to finish the job. _That_ was a feeling that Dean was accustomed to, the readiness to put oneself at risk, to just _do something_ because he didn't know how not to, couldn’t stand the helplessness of standing still. “Well, Birdie, I’m ready when you are.”

Without missing a beat the vigilante stood. “Then let’s go,” she replied breezily. She paced towards the door, straightened her mask and got her baton at the ready. Dean couldn’t help but give her an appreciative once over. He was really starting to wonder where she’d been all his life.

Though Laurel hoped this would be a simple in-and-out job, she still wanted to be as prepared as possible. She quizzed him a little as they made the short trek. “So, what do the movies actually get right about these things?”

Dean smirked at her over his shoulder. “They sure as shit don’t _sparkle_ , if that’s what you’re getting at,” he jibed.

She tossed her hair back with a scoff. “Oh, please. Give me some credit.”

Dean chuckled as they weaved through the streets. The first hints of daylight were peeking over the horizon, a line of red and orange hues was sandwiched and bleeding between the sky and the cityscape. “They got the big stuff more or less right. You can kill them by burning or beheading, they can’t go out in the sunlight, heightened senses. Blah blah.”

“Okay….” she drawled, “How about ways in which the movies and the real things are different?”

He huffed a little, starting to feel a little like an indulgent school teacher. But he enjoyed the company of someone who seemed to value his opinion - he didn’t always feel that Sam did. He decided to humor her. “Well, under certain circumstances, they can be cured.”

“How?” She breathed, amazed. It had never once crossed her mind that there could be an alternative at hand here. The very idea that they could potentially save this creature, _this person_ , from a fate worse than death had her seriously rethinking this whole ‘kill the vampire’ thing they had going on. “And how do you know that?”

Dean shrugged. “I was one once.” Like it was no big deal.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” She nearly screeched.

His lips quivered as they suppressed an amused grin. “It was only for a day. If a vampire doesn’t drain any human blood, but instead kills the vampire who turned them, it reverses the transformation. But once they’ve fed off of someone it’s too late, there’s no going back.”

She stared for a moment. Perhaps it was the casual way he’d described it, like it was no big deal, just par for the course, but it unsettled her a little to hear it. Yet, at the same time she felt comforted in the knowledge that Dean had _literally_ been there, done that, so this job should be a piece of cake after all. They continued walking.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Laurel skipped up so she was right beside him. “I could never handle being a vampire. What’s a life without garlic bread?” She imparted, her eyes danced with mirth. Dean laughed, long and loud, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that.

It didn’t take them long to find the place. It was deathly quiet in the dawn, and they remained on high alert as they approached. Around the back of the building, they could see a wooden panel, once used to board up the low window, had been busted in and pushed aside. Black Canary nodded once as she met Dean’s eyes, inclining her head for him to proceed, she was right on his heels.

Dean ducked through the open space and got his machete at the ready, he took measured steps, moving almost silently into the building. He waited, vigilant, for her to enter behind him. Her clear knack for stealth made its presence known when she quickly and easily stepped up beside him, her entrance caused no disturbance. In his peripheral, Dean could see her readying herself. They stayed for a prolonged moment, allowing their eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. They strained to hear any movement from within the building, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Cautiously, he stepped forward, weapon in hand.

They scouted the rooms one at a time, thankfully all of the downstairs rooms were open, and they were able to scout them undetected. Though they didn’t find their target, at least they knew that wherever it was hiding upstairs, it had not be alerted by the creaking of any doors. They still had the element of surprise on their side. They moved deeper into the property, Dean’s blade glinted in the small rays of light that managed to filter through the joins in the boarded up windows. Laurel watched his back, they moved as a unit as if they’d been doing so for a long time.

Quietly, they crept up the old, wooden staircase, tensing after every tell-tale creak, praying it wouldn’t be enough to give them away. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. They heard scuffling, low grunts and movement coming from the room farthest down the hall. Dean raised a finger to his lips and Laurel nodded. With his blade raised high, ready to swing, Dean slid around the door frame.

They stood in the entryway of what appeared to have once been a bedroom, there was no furniture remaining, but the tattered, patterned wallpaper and grubby, matching drapes gave it away. In the far corner, the creature was huddled with its back to them. It’s shoulders were hunched forward and Dean was surprised it remained unaware of their presence. Dean could hear the low, wet sounds of muffled grunts and he grimaced. It was immediately after the sound had registered that he noticed the body. Swaddled in layers of dirty, old coats and sleeping bags, it was almost totally hidden from view. Dean felt a pang of guilt for the poor, homeless civilian that he’d been unable to save. Again, he cursed himself for letting the fiend get away.

Black Canary had yet to react, awaiting Dean’s next move. She respected his prowess as someone who had far greater experience in this than she did. Though she would never sit back and do nothing, she understood that they were far more likely to get the job done quickly if she followed his lead. Peering over his shoulder, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking at. As unfamiliar as she was with vampires, it took a little longer for her to put the pieces together.

The picture came together with a sickening snap in her mind's eye, and she reeled back. A gasp burst forth as she felt bile burn at the base of her throat. As if in slow motion, like a horrific domino effect, her reaction triggered one from the monster. Its head whirled inhumanely fast, exposing the blood smeared, gauged open throat of its victim. It snarled and Dean cursed, taking a step forward to plant himself between the vigilante and the monster.

The thing lunged, it was up and across the room in a move so rapid and so fluid that the body it had previously been cradling impacted the floor with a reverberating smack. Laurel stared, horrified as the creature's lips curled back from its gore stained teeth, elongated and deadly. The blood dripped down it’s chin, onto it’s chest, onto the floor. It was one thing to see a vampire face to face, and quite another to witness it as it was feeding, to stare into its face amidst its frenzy. For the first time since meeting Dean, Laurel truly feared for her life.

“Dean…” she breathed, desperate, afraid, ill-prepared.

“Stay back,” Dean hissed, and the monster gave a devilish grin.

It charged, taking that fraction of a second in which Dean’s attention was diverted. It utilized the opening for all it was worth and pounced, sending the machete skidding across the room. It was weak, injured, and had been disturbed mid-feast. It wasn’t just a monster revelling in bloodshed, it was a vulnerable animal, its instincts screamed to protect its spoils, to ward off anything that may be in competition for its meal. You never sneak up on a predator when it’s feeding. But this was a sentient beast, and that made it all the more terrifying.

It’s eyes flashed, recognizing them from the previous attack. The small reprieve and the added boost of fresh blood had heightened its resolve. There would be no running this time. Kill or be killed.

Dean landed a sucker punch to its jaw, the creature's head snapped back with a crunch but it retaliated. It grabbed Dean around the neck, it’s grimy, blood encrusted fingers pressed into the supple skin of his throat. It felt Dean’s pulse, erratic with the beat of his pounding heart. The adrenaline made it smell all the more sweet as it scented what it aimed to make its next meal.

Dean desperately searched for some way to break free, and his eyes landed on the vigilante. Her back was pressed to the wall beside the door, her mouth agape in frozen terror and her eyes unblinking. He tried to meet her gaze, tried to break through. If she didn’t snap out of it they’d both die.

Dean was struggling, but the monster had him pinned. It straddled his chest as it pressed down harder. Dean was suffocating, his vision growing spotty around the edges and the fiend’s gore tainted saliva dribbled onto his face as it snarled, licked it’s lips and salivated above him.

And suddenly he gasped, the heavy weight that was crushing his diaphragm slumped forward like its strings had been cut, blood splattered and poured freely over his neck and shoulder from where the thing’s head had just been. He sucked in laboured breaths as he hastily shoved the body away. Panting, Dean rolled to his hands and knees, his head hung between his heaving shoulders as he fought to catch his breath. He glanced up to see Black Canary there, blood laced machete in her shaking hands and her eyes looking slightly unfocused.

“I owe ya one,” he managed, but speaking felt like choking up razors through his still hoarse throat. He coughed and spluttered.

The blade clattered against the ground as she dropped it, finally coming back to herself. It had seemed that all the excitement had finally caught up with her, the shock finally setting in. He’d told her it was a vampire. She’d seen it herself. Yet she felt like she hadn’t seen a thing until she’s watched it devour someone right in front of her. Her breath hitched.

“Hey,” Dean began, his voice still a little quiet and strained, “It’s alright. I get it, it’s a lot. But you did good.”

He could admit that he’d been a little pissed, that he’d feared for his life. There had been a moment when he was sure that neither of them would get out alive, but in the end, she’d pulled through. She’d saved them. He’d seen too many people crack under the pressure, the job not living up to their fanciful idealized notion. She’d been scared shitless, and she’d still saved his ass.

They stood there for a second, allowed the adrenaline to drain away as they stabilized their rapid heart beats and frantic breaths. He smiled at her a little wistfully, mindful of her still shocked state. He scrubbed the drying gore from his face with the back of his hand and grimaced. “After this, you really gotta let me buy you a drink.”

She blinked a couple of times, her eyelashes fluttered as she focused on his face. “I don’t drink,” she told him. Her tone, though soft, left no room for debate. He sensed there was something more there, information that wasn’t freely given, but had to be earned. There was a softness in her gaze that suggested that it wasn’t his company that she was rejecting.

“How ‘bout something to eat?” He suggested instead, “Gotta celebrate your first hunt.”

She seemed to break free from the last of her trembling at that, and grinned. “I know a place that does _the best_ bacon-cheese fries.”

Dean let out a breathy chuckle, and righted himself. He gestured towards the door, inclined his head for her to lead the way. “A woman after my own heart, Birdie.” He teased.

She smiled at him, a real one. Her eyes were finally completely devoid of that previously haunted look. “Laurel,” she told him, “My name is Laurel.”

“Laurel,” he let out under his breath on a sigh. He smiled to himself as she made her way to the doorway.

He retrieved a hip flask from his waist and uncapped it, the smell of gasoline was pungent. He poured the liquid onto the remains of the vamp, and the adjacent homeless corpse. “What the Hell are you _doing?_ ” He heard Laurel hiss.

“We have to burn it up. Destroy the evidence. We’ll leave an anonymous tip about it as soon as we leave. The fire will be localized. The authorities will assume the homeless guy started it for warmth, or that some local kids committed arson. Whatever they think, it’s not gonna be vampire. And it’s not gonna link to you.” Dean explained without looking up from the task at hand. He retrieved a box of matches from his back pocket.

Laurel could see the logic of course, but the thought of starting a fire like this didn’t settle well in her gut, burning down this florist and setting light to the body of an innocent bystander didn’t seem very heroic at all. But, she’d vowed to follow Dean’s lead, if they didn’t do this it would only be a matter of time before someone found the bodies; the authorities would speculate, Team Arrow would be tipped off, and everyone would end up making a mountain out of a molehill. This was a fast and efficient - though perhaps a little merciless - way to wrap this up.

Laurel opted to head downstairs, she stood on the bottom step and strained to hear any noises out on the street. Work traffic would be slowly picking up, but back streets such as this should stay deserted for at least another hour or two. Faintly, she could make out the tell-tale _snick_ of a match being lit. A second later she heard the dull roar of a flame igniting, and then the thudding of Dean’s retreating footsteps as he ran towards her. Wordlessly, they made their escape.

After a few moments of running, Dean took a hold of Laurel’s elbow gently and urged her towards the back alley adjacent to the motel. He clambered up the nearest fire escape, and perched on the roof, keeping a close eye on the building. The fire had not yet spread, smoke not yet visible. He drew a burner phone out of his pocket and Laurel knew he was preparing to tip off the fire department.

“We gotta wait as long as we can, give the body time to burn. Vamps go up pretty quick, I don’t know what it is about them but they burn to a crisp in no time, and the fire stays localized. It’s the homeless guy we’re gonna have trouble with. We need to leave this as long as possible, wait for the fire to be visible from the streets before we give the tip off. We’ll sit and watch and if anything goes South then we can jump in,” Dean reeled off.

Laurel was not happy with this scenario, but it was too late for that now, and she didn’t see a viable alternative. Dean kept the phone in hand regardless, hyper vigilant and waiting to make the call should anything go awry. She decided that it would have to be enough.

There was a different sort of rush that accompanied the job this time. Laurel was used to - had even grown fond of - the adrenaline that came with being a vigilante. All she’d ever wanted was to help people. She’d felt satisfied, full when she had helped someone. Whether it be as a lawyer, a vigilante or a vampire hunter, Laurel Lance was complete when she saved lives. It’s all she’d ever wanted. But this time, it was different. No one would know what she and Dean had done, no notoriety or recognition, and it seemed somehow more personal, more pure. Though Laurel had a tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve, and a habit for getting attached to those she represented, she found it cathartic, freeing to be able to save people without putting her feelings on the line. How she felt emotionally had always been so closely entwined with why she did what she did, and it was a relief to not have that dilemma this time.

As the minutes passed the smoke was making its way out of the building, but the old brick walls were keeping the inferno at bay for the most part. Black, billowing clouds rose from every busted-in window, and the smell of it was thick in the air. But the fire hadn’t spread, no doubt gutting the interior although contained so far.

Laurel peered up at Dean to find he was already watching her, his brow was furrowed as if he were solving a puzzle. She didn’t understand why he didn’t just ask whatever it was he wanted to know. But he didn’t strike her as the _sharing and caring_ type, so why would he open up that door by making an inquiry?

“That’s it,” He spoke abruptly, “That’s as long as we can afford to leave it.”

Without waiting for a response - not that there was anything she could really say to that - he paced away to make the call. He returned a moment later and nodded. “There’s a couple of minute window before they get here. We should get out of here.” He inclined his head in the general direction of the motel.

“No,” Laurel spoke calmly, but her tone left no room for debate. “You can head back, it’s fine. Thanks for the help, but I’d rather not leave until I know everything is taken care of.”

It was a dismissal if Dean had ever heard one, and he didn't really know why it bothered him so much. It felt like a rejection, which was ridiculous, this was a job. Before he could offer up a rebuttal he caught sight of a figure in his peripheral.

Dean turned to spy a hooded man, and by the ridiculous way he was dressed, the hunter felt it fair to assume he was another vigilante. Though Dean was begrudgingly impressed by the man’s silent appearance and obvious knack for stealth, he wasn’t all that fond of being snuck up on, and despite his diehard love for comic books, this whole ‘wannabe superhero’ thing was really starting to grate. Needless to say, Dean wasn’t exactly happy about having to deal with another of these guys.

“Black Canary,” the man spoke, his voice obviously distorted and modulated. Dean wanted to roll his eyes.

Laurel didn’t turn at the address, though from the almost imperceptible tension in her frame, Dean could tell she was listening and she was cautious. Suddenly, Dean felt he had another reason to dislike this guy. Dean folded his arms across his chest as he briefly glanced between them.

“What do you want, Arrow?” Laurel responded, and mentally Dean had to commend them, he was sure he’d constantly be slipping up on the codename front.

“Saw your bike chained up a few streets over, heard the tip-off on the radio and figured you’d be here,” He replied, the modulator made his voice hard to read, and the hood kept his face in shadow, but Dean got the impression that he was….dissatisfied.

“Well, you figured right,” She replied coolly, and Dean quirked a brow. Even when they were at each other’s throats in the beginning - could it really only have been a few short hours ago? - she had never spoken to him in such a detached way. From what he’d seen she was fiery, passionate, all or nothing. Yet, she hardened herself against this man who so far seemed entirely unremarkable. She closed off and gave him nothing but casual exchange. Dean didn’t like it at all.

“Don’t you think it’s reckless to try and take on jobs alone, without knowing what you’re getting into? Don’t you think it’s selfish to walk out on the team without letting anyone know where you were going?” _Arrow_ scolded suddenly. Even through the voice scrambler, Dean could hear the condescending disapproval, the bitter, self-righteous fury. And suddenly he was feeling rather furious himself.

But, before Dean could butt in, Laurel whirled around, her arms folded tightly across her torso as she stared the other vigilante down. “I left to get some air! We were done talking - or should I say you were done lecturing me - I didn’t walk out on anyone or anything,” Her eyes glinted dangerously, “I don’t know where you get off, but I don’t owe you an explanation. I went for a ride to calm down when I stumbled upon the job, I didn’t seek it out, and I’m perfectly capable of handling some petty arson.”

Laurel seemingly wanted to keep the true nature of the fire - and the job that had led to it - from whoever this guy was. Maybe she was protecting Dean, maybe she felt the less he knew the better in general, but Dean certainly wasn’t going to expose her lie. It irritated Dean greatly that this guy was undermining Laurel so thoroughly, talking down to her like she was inferior, when in the little time that he’d known her, Laurel had saved Dean’s life twice, she’d adapted quickly and efficiently to everything he’d thrown at her. She’d proven herself resourceful and capable. She certainly didn’t need a chaperone or a supervisor.

Arrow clenched his jaw, clearly unhappy with her rebuttal, and Dean found it ridiculous that this guy was so self-absorbed he felt he could talk down to his teammate undeservedly like that, least of all without receiving similar treatment in return. Dean scoffed, drawing the other man’s attention. “No offence, guy, but who the fuck died and made you boss?”

Without even bothering to give Dean a response, the vigilante looked back to Laurel, his grip tightened around his bow. “Who’s this? And why have you dragged him into this?”

Laurel opened her mouth to respond, and though Dean felt a twinge of guilt for stepping on her toes this way, he couldn’t let that fly. “Name’s Dean. And I didn’t get _dragged_ into anything. I’m a grown-ass man. I make my own choices. And she makes hers, so how about you back off a little?”

The archer grit his teeth, his eyes remained unwavering on Laurel, as if waiting for her to break, waiting for her to give him the answers he felt he was owed. She stood tall in the face of it, unflinching. Dean wondered how often things like this happened.

Laurel stared right back at Oliver, her face was passive but a storm raged inside her. She had tried so hard to reconcile and overlay the conflicting versions of the man she knew. Where was the Oliver she’d once loved?

Despite his shortcomings, bad habits and an upbringing of being so thoroughly spoilt he believed he could do whatever - or whoever - he wanted without consequence, Oliver had loved her in his way. She had tried to convince herself that she was the only one who mattered, the one he came home to, the one he respected the mind of, who he talked with and planned with and did more than just sleep with. She was the one. She’d always deserved better. But she’d been love-blind.

Oliver Queen had grown up in a household where he snapped his fingers and got what he wanted, the entitlement that came with a life like that had left him unable to commit, unable to sacrifice that lifestyle for one more humble. She’d thought for her that he’d try. It wasn’t his fault, not entirely. A certain degree of blame had to be placed on the parents.

Looking at him now, the downward set of his mouth, the tension in his frame, the steel in his eyes; it left her cold. _There is nothing here for you_ , she thought. _He owes you more than this._

Confronted with the truth of it, in juxtaposition to the new dynamic she’d just forged with Dean, Laurel could really see it, thrown into high definition. Oliver talked down to her near constantly, when she had done nothing to warrant his mistrust, his lack of faith. She had always done her best by him, even when he didn’t deserve it. Dean had given her the benefit of the doubt when he had no reason to, he had treated her like a teammate, like a partner, like an equal. Oliver Queen was a coward of a man. Laurel didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about the fact that a man like Oliver Queen had had the audacity to call her selfish.

But despite that, despite all the resentment left to fester, despite all the hurt she’d swallowed down and poisoned herself with, she could see there was a part of him that still cared for her. She could read him better than anyone else could, and it was both a blessing and a curse. She could see that beneath his cold exterior and his hypocritical, entitled bullshit, he truly believed that what he was doing was right. Laurel didn’t know if that made it better or worse. He thought she was just being difficult, spiteful. But, for whatever reason, Oliver thought that dictating to her would keep her safe, that if she’d just do what she was told, _what he wanted_ , then things would be fine. But, she wasn’t his to control, she never had been. No matter how pure the intention had been, the outcome was still toxic, the method poorly conceived. It was high time that Oliver Queen learned that not everything was about him, not everything was his to mould and manipulate and claim.

The tense silence dragged on for a minute or two longer before the distant sound of sirens grew impossibly closer and the firetruck came screeching around the corner and onto the street below. Without a word Laurel moved to stand at Dean’s side, inclined her head to him and headed back down the fire escape. With one last scathing glance at the male vigilante, Dean followed closely behind her.

Laurel couldn’t look at Dean, she felt raw and vulnerable and flayed open. Oliver never failed to get under her skin, without even trying. He shook her very foundations with so much as a word and it had been years since he’d been someone she would compromise herself for.

There had been a time when Laurel would’ve offered herself up in a second for him, over anything. She was stronger than that now, but still whenever they got in one of these disputes there was a moment - fleeting though it was - when Laurel was that lovesick fool again, and she wanted to know why she wasn’t enough, wanted to plead and ask: _What? What do I need to lay down at your feet? When will I matter enough?_ She hated herself for those moments of weakness, and in turn she took those out on him. He had done this to her, slithered in and mangled her insides and tied her up in knots until she wasn’t herself. He’d made her bitter, he and her father both. Even Tommy, though she’d loved him dearly, had spent most of their relationship accusing her and doubting her sincerity. She wanted to scream: _Is this not love? Is my love broken? Does it not look right? I’m giving it to you and you’re calling it something different._

In the fairytale of Laurel Lance’s life, every prince had been a serpent in disguise.

She was so sick of second-guessing herself every time Oliver opened his mouth. She was so sick of her father acting like he had her best interests at heart when what was best for her had never taken precedence over a bottle. For years she’d been prying glass from his trembling fingers and ignoring the accusations that got carried on stale, booze-odoured breath. She’d lost her sister and her boyfriend and her mother, all up and vanished in a blink, and her father had become a ghost. She’d spent so long grasping tightly to what was left of him, felt him slipping through the cracks and drowning in a bottle, and now finally when she was doing something for herself he wanted to talk about what she needed. She’d needed her father, she hadn’t had him in a long time. She was so tired of wondering if she’d told Tommy enough that she loved him, even though they weren’t together when he’d died, even though he had pushed her away. She’d really tried, she had, her love was present and real. Not knowing if he had known had made her sick, bile burning her throat at the thought that he might have died for her without understanding: she had loved him with all she had left, even if he hadn’t trusted that. That wasn’t her fault.

Laurel glanced back at Dean to catch him watching her. He didn’t try to disturb her, ask her for answers or get her to talk when she wasn’t ready. She appreciated that. Dean was a relative stranger, she’d barely known him a few hours and yet he had shown her more respect, more deference, given her the benefit of the doubt when the resident men in her life seemingly did nothing but undermine and tear her down. Dean was handsome, and strong, he was cool with a sarcastic sense of humour and a fearless bravery that resonated with her effortlessly. He had stood up to Oliver for her, without ever trying to dictate.

Dean Winchester was like a breath of fresh air. Laurel knew he was temporary, that he was a drifter that would go wherever the job took him, that the likelihood of ever seeing him beyond this night was almost impossible. Maybe that was just another thing that made him so appealing. If she knew from the jump not to expect anything, then he couldn’t let her down. She just wanted to _feel_ something for a change. She felt so cut-off and affection-starved and just wanted to claim control of herself and feel good for a change. It was a little reckless, she could admit that. But, she’d acted on impulse, run on instinct, crossed each bridge as she’d come to it with Dean the entire time they’d known each other. It hadn’t steered her wrong this far.

She stopped suddenly, turned to face him. Their breaths turned to wisps between them in the cold, winter air, and Laurel watched, transfixed as his eyes flickered between her gaze and her mouth and back again. If nothing else, she knew in that moment he’d thought about kissing her. It was a mutual concept. Her lips stretched into a soft grin and she tentatively raised herself up on her toes. Then, his arm was around her waist to keep her steady and her fingers were hooked around the nape of his neck. The kiss lasted a few long moments, steady and sure and unhurried, like they’d done this a dozen times before. Despite everything about their circumstances pointing to the contrary, it felt a lot like coming home.

They stumbled back to the motel room, the sky had lightened and morning work traffic offered up a questionable soundtrack. They didn’t speak, simply exchanged sly glances and more slow kisses as they made the trek. They fell unceremoniously onto the bed, the leather and buckles of her suit provided time consuming hurdles. She couldn’t help but laugh at Dean’s frustrated grumbles as one buckle led to another and another. She felt free, and when Dean smiled at her, his previous annoyance clearly put upon, she felt like she’d made the right decision for the first time in a long while. But with every new buckle loosened, Dean pressed a butterfly kiss to the skin he uncovered. Laurel couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt cherished, if ever, and didn’t really have a solid frame of reference, but she was sure it was something close to this.

Afterwards, they led side by side, the morning sun streamed between the blinds and left geometric patterns over their sheet-covered bodies. The adrenaline of the hunt, the exhaustion of the sleepless night, the emotional toll of having to deal with Oliver had all left Laurel incredibly sleepy and sated. Laurel was an affectionate person by nature, and though she felt close to Dean in a way she’d never anticipated, she wasn’t quite comfortable enough to initiate cuddling.

She hadn’t been intimate with anyone since Oliver in the days prior to Tommy’s death, and so much had happened since then, so much self-discovery had been done that she’d barely given it a thought, but it plagued her now. In her whole life she’d only ever slept with two men - three now - and both Oliver and Tommy had been people she’d grown up with, people she’d known forever, people she would always love in some capacity, if only for what they’d been through together. But, Dean was an anomaly, he was her exception. He was just some guy who was in the right place at the right time and had been able to give her exactly what she’d needed without even trying.

Basking in the unexpected but welcome feeling of safety and comfort that Dean’s presence brought, she really wasn’t prepared for what came out of his mouth when he finally spoke. “He was your ex, wasn’t he?” Dean murmured, almost apologetic. There was no denying who he was referring to, it wasn’t a question.

Laurel groaned and rolled onto her stomach, she buried her face in her pillow and folded her arms beneath it. “Your pillow talk is atrocious,” she quipped.

Dean chuckled, and smiled at her fondly, the crinkles around his eyes made her chest burn. “It’s none of my business, you can tell me to fuck off. But, you can talk to me about it if you wanna. I don’t want you to regret this just because you did it ‘cause your ex pissed you off.”

Laurel frowned, “That’s not why I did it,” she rejected immediately, though she was more incredulous than angry. It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. Would she have slept with Dean had it not been for her confrontation with Oliver? Hard to say. But, it was rather the revelation she’d made that had prompted her decision. Ultimately, she deserved better. She deserved a nice guy who she was attracted to. Whether it was for a night or forever, it was okay to want things for herself.

“No?” Dean asked, eyebrow raised, but he wasn’t doubting her, he wasn’t annoyed or offended the way Laurel knew a lot of men would be, he was simply curious.

“Might’ve been part of it,” she allowed, “I guess, it’s just...I realized that I’ve been hung up on the past for too long, and it’s okay for me to want things for myself.”

“Messy break-up, huh?” He guessed, not unkindly.

“He cheated on me with my sister,” She revealed.

Dean let out a low whistle and shook his head a little. He looked like he had no idea what to say to that, and she couldn’t blame him. It was a ridiculous situation, what reality TV was made for.

“Then he disappeared for years and I was left thinking that he was dead, and I’d never know why I wasn’t enough for him,” she murmured softly. It was still sad to think about it, hard to forget.

Dean’s gaze turned hard for a second then, serious. “Hey, no...That’s his issue, okay? A guy can’t see a good thing when he’s got it? A guy wants to jeopardize one good thing because he’s greedy and can’t keep it in his pants? That’s his issue. You don’t owe him shit.”

“I know,” Laurel started, taken aback but entirely enamoured by Dean’s outburst, “Logically, I know that. God knows I’ve given that exact advice to friends of mine a few times but…” She sighed, trying to work out how best to phrase her thoughts. “It’s like, I spent years thinking he was dead, gone forever. I was so young when we got together. I was stupidly head-over-heels. I was thinking of houses and weddings and careers. The whole nine yards. I wanted it all. I thought we could make it,” Dean reached a hand over, his fingertips trailed soothing patterns over her arm as her breath hitched. “Then he was gone and everything just got flushed and I convinced myself I was okay….Then he came back and I saw him and….I was happy to see him….I was happy that he wasn’t dead and then I got angry that I was happy. And I hate that he made me so bitter...But, for that moment when I saw him again...I felt like that naive, blind girl with all her plans and I...I thought I could…” she trailed off, brokenly.

“You could have it all,” Dean supplied. He knew that feeling too well. He’d felt it every day with Lisa and Ben, like he’d been blessed with everything he’d never even thought to want. It had been the only time in his whole life where he’d felt: _this is me, this is settled._ Losing them had hurt something fierce, but the knowledge that they were out there somewhere, living safe and happy lives having been purged of their memories of him, it brought a small comfort.

“An empire of dirt,” Laurel muttered brokenly, her gaze found the cracked paint of the ceiling.

Dean’s brows reached his hairline and he smirked a little to himself. _Beautiful, badass, rides a motorcycle **and** quotes Johnny Cash?_ “How are you real?” He breathed. Laurel snorted a laugh.

She peered over at him then, her eyes beseeching, her smile soft. “Thanks,” she told him.

Dean leaned over to press a kiss to her forehead, before settling down to get some well deserved rest. And if he lopped an arm around her hips and tugged her impossibly close, no one was around to call him on it, and Laurel certainly wasn’t complaining. Sleep came quickly.

That afternoon Dean woke up alone, and though he’d done the walk of shame countless times himself, he’d never been on the receiving end of this particular act of rejection. It stung, he could admit that. In the short time they’d spent together he’d felt a mutual understanding between them that had left a longing in his gut. Though, he also acknowledged this was for the best. He wasn’t great with goodbyes, was too soft inside, he couldn’t stomach them.

He’d lost so many people in his life that along the way he’d adopted the belief that the less people you had, the less you could lose, so perhaps losing Laurel before he’d ever really had her was to be expected. Or a more positive way of looking at it would be: if he never had her, he could never truly lose her either. Doubtless, she would be a new dream. And new figment of a _could have been_ , a new rendition of a _if things were different_. Lisa would no longer be the only one who got away.

He packed his things away, shoving items haphazardly into his duffle with a dejected way about him. He glanced over his shoulder at the unmade bed, the cold sheets that she’d left behind. He sighed.

After successfully checking out and loading up Baby, he got behind the steering wheel. He searched through his text messages, intending to listen to his voicemails after that. He’d accumulated quite a few over the last few days. Surely a few of them would contain potential jobs, he just had to pick where he would be headed next. No matter where his destination may be, it would be hard to see Star City in his rearview. A voicemail from Garth about a string of seemingly ritualistic murders had Dean setting course and heading South. He turned the key and patted the dash affectionately. He’d always have Baby.

The passenger door creaked open, and like a gift from the universe she was there, a smile so bright and open that he felt it mirrored on his own face. “Leaving without me?” She quipped. “Sorry about running out on you, I had some things to take care of at home, but I was hoping to get back before you checked out.” He couldn’t find the words to ask, but the bewildered look on his face must have been question enough. “ _I told you_ , I finally figured out that it’s okay to want things for myself.”

No. Dean couldn’t believe it. Things just didn’t go well for him. As a general rule Dean Winchester never, ever got what he wanted. The powers that be had long established that Dean didn’t get a shot at happiness, wasn’t built for it. “Are..Are you?...What?”

Laurel rolled her eyes teasingly, shrugged like it was no big deal. “There’s nothing here for me,” She told him breezily, but he could see the touch of sadness in her eyes, how much she believed that to be true.

“They never deserved you,” He returned, the same teasing tone, the same sincere expression. _But I’m going to try to._


End file.
